She practically shuffled away from the command center.
As Qianjie descended the narrow passage, the air gradually became moist and warm, even filled with a strange smell, a mixture of earthy and fishy odors.
One side of the passageway is a thick, transparent bulkhead, inside which lies the massive plantation that Clinton's team was so proud of.
Sister Qian walked through the connecting passage. On the artificial planting beds, which were divided into countless squares, vegetables with leaves that were so thick they looked almost bizarre grew wildly under the harsh white lights, their stems thick and glossy.
Several white men were idly drinking coffee, while Asian laborers, dressed in faded overalls like Qian Jie and with expressionless faces, moved numbly between the narrow furrows of the field, harvesting and replanting.
Clearly, this almost luxurious self-sufficiency was one of the cornerstones that allowed the Clinton organization to take root in this isolated abyss.
Every so often, a batch of crops, nearly matured through artificial ripening, would be transplanted here. She knew in her heart that it was a special ability triggered by the cultural relics controlled by the upper echelons.
However, after the transplant, all the heavy and dirty work was undertaken by men and women laborers at the bottom of society.
Qianjie's gaze swept over this prosperous scene born from the exploitation of cheap Asian labor, but her heart remained unmoved, only filled with a burning anger that grew stronger and stronger.
How much did she pay to gain a foothold in this ruthless organization and eventually reach a position where she can say a few words in the logistics team?
All the effort and all the planning were about to be destroyed by that ignorant and arrogant daughter who inherited all the stupidity and stubbornness of that dead man!
"You good-for-nothing..." A string of hateful curses rolled down her throat, her aged fingers nervously tightening the greasy hem of her work clothes, "Just like your dead father... brainless cowards!"
As the lights faded further away from the farm area, the passageways became narrower and more oppressive, with only the sparse emergency lights overhead emitting a faint green glow.
Sister Qian stopped in front of an inconspicuous gray alloy door. The door was heavy and cold, with no observation window, only an indicator light flashing red with the word "Closed".
She reached out and entered a complex password on the control panel on the side of the door.
The heavy lock clicked open with a dull thud, and the door slid open a crack, releasing a strong smell of blood.
The cramped solitary confinement cell was almost completely dark, with only a frail figure bound by chains that emitted a faint glow.
The man was bound to a cold alloy chair—clearly a restraint talisman.
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